“One of her reproaches,” he said, “is just; I can’t meet it.  If I object to her present companions it is my duty to find her more suitable ones.  She lives too much alone.  No doubt it is every husband’s duty to provide his wife with society.  But how am I to find it?  I am so isolated, and always have been.  I know not a soul who could be a friend to her.”

Waymark grew thoughtful, and kept silent.

“One person I know,” he said presently, and in a cautious way, “who might perhaps help you.”

“You do?” cried Julian eagerly.

“You know that I make all sorts of queer acquaintances in my wanderings.  Well, I happen to know a girl of about your wife’s age, who, if she were willing, would be just the person you want.  She is quite alone, parentless, and almost without friends.  She lives by herself, and supports herself by working in a laundry.  For all this, she is by no means the ordinary London work-girl; you can’t call her educated, but she speaks purely, and has a remarkably good intelligence.  I met her by chance, and kept up her acquaintance.  There has been nothing wrong—­bah! how conventional one is, in spite of oneself!—­I mean to say there has been nothing more than a pleasant friendship between us; absolutely nothing.  We see each other from time to time, and have a walk, perhaps a meal, together, and I lend her books.  Now, do you think there would be any way of getting your wife to accept her society, say of an evening now and then?  Don’t do anything rash; it is of course clear that you must have no hand in this.  I must manage it if it is to be done.  Naturally, I can’t answer at once for the girl’s readiness; but I believe she would do what I asked her to.  Do you think it is worth entertaining, this idea?”

“I do, indeed; it would be salvation, I really believe.”

“Don’t be too sanguine, Casti; that’s another of your faults.  Still, I know very well that this girl could cure your wife of her ill propensities if any living creature could.  She is strong in character, admirably clear-headed, mild, gentle, womanly; in fact, there is perhaps no one I respect so much, on the whole.”

“Respect, only?” asked Julian, smiling.

“Ye-es; yes, I believe I am perfectly honest in saying so, though I couldn’t have been so sure about it some little time ago.  Our relations, no doubt, are peculiar; on her side there is no more warmth than on mine”—­Waymark tried so to believe—­“and indeed her clear sight has no doubt gauged me fairly well at my true value.”

“What is her name?”

“Ida Starr.”

“What!” cried Julian startled.  “That is a strange thing!  You have noticed the scar on Harriet’s forehead?”

“Well?”

“Why, it was a wound given her at school by a girl of that very name!  I remember the name as well as possible.  It was a blow with a slate dealt in passion—­some quarrel or other.  They were both children then, and Ida Starr left the school in consequence.”